Chapter 81 : Writers Group Covid19 Skyp

First writers Skype group tonight since corona crazy laid its ugly rotten egg over us all. Little glitchy here and there – but all in all – an awesome night. Didn’t realise how much I would relish seeing familiar faces. It’s all very weird and surreal and I’m grateful for the lot of it. 

We swapped our individual covid experiences and got stuck into the writing. Hopefully going to put some of our efforts toward the Perth Museum who are looking for a collection of insights into this weird ass sci fi movie we all suddenly find ourselves a part of.

Everyone was a little flat, and I found it pretty hard to get into the swing of things, so nothing too groundbreaking or remotely deep tonight. My last 2 offerings are from the perspective of my dog. Actually the animal POV’s were the best. Karen has a bitch of a cat with a really shocking attitude. Twas gold.

Corona Clay.
A crisis-schooling conversation.

Don’t drink anymore.

Reconsidering this decision. Rapidly.

“What’s in there Mum?”

“Clay.”

“Ooh. What’s clay?”

“Ay? Well… it’s just clay.”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

“It’s what your yoga teacher told us you needed for the online session today.”

“Oh. So I’m not doing yoga?”

“Yes, you’re still doing yoga.”

“With clay? That’s weird.”

“No, silly. You’re gonna make something with the clay after you’ve done yoga… or before… or whenever.”

“Ah. Like the breathing jar.”

“Yes, like the breathing jar.”

“Right. So what’s the clay for?”

“Did we not just go through this?”

“Not really.”

“I think it’s for making a mandala thingy.”

“Mandala thingy?”

“Yeah. Mindful, creative stuff to help calm you down… during… all this…”

“Corona stuff?”

“Not just that.”

“I’ve seen it. 2000 died… somewhere.”

“What? Where’d you see that?”

“BTN.”

“Please stop watching that show.”

“It’s for kids! It’s on 23.”

“Back to 22 for now. What happened to Bluey?”

“I keep missing it.”

“Well watch it on playback, or watch something else. No more news.”

“You sound funny, Mum. Want me to get the breathing jar.”

“No thanks, love. I’m alright.”

“I know what’s going on you know. I am 8.”

“It’s because you’re 8 that I don’t want you to know everything that’s going on, lovey.”

“If we stay inside we’ll be fine. Step out – boom. Dead.”

“What the fu…”

“Can I look at the clay?”

“Um, yeah, sure. I got you terracotta. The white looked naff.”

“I like white. Shoulda got white. This just looks like clay.”

“Thought you didn’t know what clay was.”

“Well, I see it’s just a brown orange lump of mud.”

“Yep. Fifteen dollars worth of brown orange mud-lump. Maybe you should go get the breathing jar.”

“Really? Yay. I’ll show you how to use it.”

“I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“So, Mum – first you shake it, then you breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth until all the sparkles reach the bottom.”

“Righto.”

“Oh and say ‘Ommmm…” Cranberry Candy says Ommm a lot.”

“Cranberry Candy says omm into her bong a lot, I reckon.”

“Ay?”

“Nothing. Alright, hand it over. I’m gonna be shaking that thing for a while.”

“What’s a bong?”

“Give me the jar. Now.”

Two hours later – one hand printed chunk of clay with split pea spiral mandala pattern done. Child more stressed out after supposed mindfulness experience fails to transcend peace loving vibes via the modern miracle that is Skype – aka – glitchy cluster fuck of the multiple screen sessioned variety. Om indeed.

Twelve hours later – on attempting to drown ones morning gullet with a bucket of coffee – said clay mandala reduced to rubble. Violated by vandals. Pesky possums pulled all nighter – clearly off their heads on clay and split peas. Cheeky little shits left their grafitti tag scratchings all over mandala middle finger. Child more distressed than after back to back BTN binge.

Today’s crisis schooling – cancelled.
Kids – Ipads, YouTube, whatever the hell. Screen it up.
Mum – Pottery, Ghost, Chocolate.

Eff you corona. And eff you crayola for the price hike on a clump of earth I could have got at the local creek if we were aloud to go to the local creek without being handmaided back into our homes for going near supposed non-social-distancing creek. But they roll the red carpet out for overpriced dry clay purchasing in an aisle the width of a beetles dick. #coronaconfusion

Life Goes On
A Corona Pooch Perspective

Smells good. She always smell good in the morning. Warm and sweet. Like muffins. Not him. He smells like socks and bum. Dags all the way. Don’t get me started on the man child. His scent wafts like stale pizza box farts. In the he-humans defence I do nuzzle deep into the more pong prone crevices. Where they are most warm. Sacrifice I’m prepared to make. Not her though. I know not to delve where I’m not wanted. The small of her back is a happy compromise and I count my blessings she’s even letting me sleep on the bed. They’re all a bit needy lately. It’s nice. I like having them constantly around. Can’t get enough,  especially the drama. Humans really are useless. They can cope with shit-all. But I love it. Meltdowns are the best! Every bastard looking for a support animal then. Nobody loves a best friend more than when in the grips of a freaked out apocalyptic frenzy with eff-all idea when it will end. Who’s your puggy now, bitch. Ha. I jest. I dig their crazy crap. I dig it all. Actually, I haven’t dug for days. Reminds me I have some work to do on an intrusive bush. What are the odds – I snack on one pissy little tomato that may or may not have been ripped from its stem and it fricken re-seeds itself. Now I’ve got a full bloody tree in my shitter! What a joke! So that’s on me to do list today. Dig. Up. Bastard. Tomato. Out. Of. Shitter. First I’m gonna get this lot up with a bit of soprano. Everyone’s been sleeping in lately which is balls because nobody is getting my breakfast at the time I’m accustomed to. This doggy brunch wank is nothing but some A grade tardy bullshit. I can’t be expected to live off shit-matos forever! Nuff said. I’m over it. Time to warm up the vocals. Me me meeeee…. wolf.

IMG_20200401_190840_1585739354237
Covid Pet Poetry

You let me sleep beside you.

I’m getting extra hugs

You pick me up and hold me close

When you need extra puggy loves

Don’t know what’s caused the change in you

Don’t understand or really care

All I know is you’re here with me

Instead of leaving to go out there

I sense lots of crazy feelings

From every one of you

Not sure what’s been happening

to make you all so blue

Just know that I am here now

Turn off the panic station

I’m your loyal loving fur baby friend

For as long as there is bacon

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